Nocturnal disctraction
by Dilanith
Summary: "You're lying in bed, thinking of Patrick," Barlow had said. But had he been right about this? - Jisbon, of course. Set in season 6, but it doesn't really matter. Oneshot.


**I often imagined what Lisbon had thought after Barlow's comment about her, that she'd be "lying in bed and thinking of Patrick". This is one of the scenes I came up with and though it isn't very long, I hope you enjoy it. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Mentalist or any characters of it. This is just for fun.**

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Yes. It was true. At night, she would lie in her bed and think of him, think of his features, his golden hair, his laughter, his emotional pain that she would eagerly share to ease it, his profound blue eyes, his smart and amused smile, his lips; and she would think of kissing him and stroking his hair, and of how it must be to make love with him. Each week that passed, her obsession seemed to grow even deeper; the minutes she spent recalling his face in her head getting more and more.

She was scared that he might have sensed her feelings for him. As much as she wanted him to know, she didn't want him to find out either. She felt like a stupid teenage girl who tries to not act nervously around her first-time crush, but this was more than a pubertal romance – despite the fact that she was a grown-up woman. She was falling in love with him, deeply and madly, and she didn't know how to stop it.

No matter how often she tried to push it into the back of her mind, the same thoughts would always haunt her... This terrifying anxiety that she wasn't smart enough for him, and that she'd never be able to give him what he wanted and needed. She was _so, so_ afraid that he might feel nothing but feelings of friendship for her that she saw no option than to keep it all to herself.

In retrospect, she somehow knew that Jane had to be aware of her being in love with him. When she had confronted him about Lorelei, almost outbursting with frustration and jealousy, he must have sensed this. _Of course_. He could read her like an open book.

Lisbon sighed in pain, her eyes closed. She fell back onto the edge of her unmade bed, then slowly spreaded her body out over the dark-grey blankets. She stared at the ceiling, covered in darkness, the sole object to give her a warm and comfortable feeling being a small light on her night table.

Yes, since some time, the best thing about going to work was to see and be together with him. As much as she'd denied it over the last years, him teasing her and constantly driving her crazy with his tricks, she now loved it and it somehow made her happy. But still, she wanted more than that. She wanted him to accompany her home, order Chinese food because none of them would be awake enough to cook, to sit down and talk about the many things she still didn't know about him until the candles would extinguish, and to stare into each other's eyes until she would rise to her feet and nervously make an attempt to put the dirty dishes into the dishwasher, and to have him follow her, whisper her name and lean over to press a light kiss on her lips, and they would part only inches away to inhale each other's breath, then share a few more gentle, tentative kisses; and to feel his soft mouth against hers, and then to have their intimate exchanges become more passionate, deeper; to have him pull her closer and sigh her name again and again each time they would break apart to catch their breath.

She wouldn't be able to think about anything but about how much she loved and admired every single thing about him, about how good his skin felt against hers, about how happy he made her and that she wanted to make him happy just as much. They would confess how much they needed each other, and he would touch her hair and spread lovingly kisses over her neck, and she would hastily pull off her thin pullover and his vest just right after while he would lightly touch her cross necklace for the split of a second and then lift her up and pull both of them onto her bed. Their lovemaking would be passionate and hungry, but still careful and gentle.

When she'd wake up, he would already be awake and have tea and eggs boiling for him and coffe and pancakes for her, but he would have returned to crawl into the bed to pull his arms around her to be there when she'd wake up. He would smile this wonderful, always amused and jokingly smile the moment she'd open her eyes, and he'd look at her with warmth and tenderness.

''Good morning, my love," he'd say and press a light kiss on her forehead; hesitate for a moment with his eyes closed, breathe in her scent and enjoy her tiny hand running over his bare chest.

The second she'd lift her head to press a kiss on his mouth, her cell phone would ring. She'd groan, but get up and answer it, and while she'd be getting informed about a new case, collecting the clothes that were spreaded over the ground because of last night's activites and open her wardrobe to pick some decent and clean ones, Jane would roll his eyes and imitate some grumbly sheriff who appointed her to the crime scene, and she'd try to shush him until the call would be ended. Then, she'd quickly gulp down her coffee and tell him to get dressed, but the only thing he'd to would be to step behind and pull his protecting arms around her, and tell her he'd never let anything happen to h-

_Stop it_. This wasn't happening. Lisbon sighed and to let out the painful wrench that was throbbing in her chest, but it didn't work.

After what seemed hours, she finally fell asleep, but with a feeling that shadowed her heart.

She didn't want to be alone anymore.


End file.
